Nimble Hands

The lascivious hands
Of cruelties -
They stroke you
In the middle of dinner
In a feast
With clenched souls
Sinking into the burgeoning floors.

Those hands,
They find you in the middle
Of a subterranean slumber
And they submerge
You evenly, picturesquely
As if shunned from all
The light of the world.
Those hands write your
Epitaph.

To the ones who
Never made it.

That is what murder wrote.
Such frigid assailants
To have imagined
The cloaked, ragamuffin figures
Thwart you with nothing
But deprivation:
Sitting at a corner
Waiting for a phone call that never arrives
Losing a semblance
Of the mundane
As the shadows danced in gaiety
Underneath the harlequin’s promenade
Waltzing over the petrified grounds
These hands know when
And where to find you
In your most vulnerable
States.